


From Dusk Till Dawn

by stoertebeker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BBC canon divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, Post-Hiatus, Post-Reichenbach, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 10:42:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3064787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stoertebeker/pseuds/stoertebeker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the physical pain was nothing compared to the screaming agony inside his heart as Sherlock observed the abandoned warehouse burning and slowly crumbling to pieces – together with the body of John Watson. John is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dusk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kerkerian_StopYulin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerkerian_StopYulin/gifts).



> This story was written for the Secret Santa Fic Exchange 2014 at the BBC Sherlock Fan Forum.
> 
> The story is for Kerkerian and her prompt were 5 keywords: snow, batteries, book, towel, escape
> 
> She would generally like to read about: Johnlock (fluff with suspension first), Things which might spice it up: a fight and/or a misunderstanding and/or a mysterious disappearance of Sherlock or John and/or some whump of sorts and/or another location than London...
> 
> Thank you very much to DrWhoLocked and Liberty for beta-reading.  
> Please note, this is my second fan fiction in the English language. I am not a native speaker, therefore every advice for improvement of grammar, sentence structure or spelling is appreciated :-)

_John is dead._

The pounding in Sherlock’s head reached a crescendo due to the chaos and noises around him – people shouting, sirens wailing. The wound on his temple was still bleeding. His ribs ached with every shaky breath he took. But all of this physical pain was nothing compared to the screaming agony inside his heart as Sherlock observed the abandoned warehouse burning and slowly crumbling to pieces – together with the body of John Watson. John was still inside there somewhere when the explosion ripped the building apart.

_John is dead._

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock!”

“Sherlock, look at me!” someone was shouting and shaking him.

Sherlock turned his gaze away from the building and the flames. Lestrade was holding his upper arms firmly and looking at him with great worry.

The DI had never seen Sherlock in such a state before. He seemed to be catatonic, his facial expression was blank, exhibiting almost no emotions but for his eyes which showed his inner turmoil. He was obviously in shock.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade spoke in a calm voice, hoping the other man would listen to his words. “Fire department has the flames under control. We don’t know where John was held captive. The building is not completely destroyed. It’s still possible we’ll find him alive.”

Lestrade knew it was a small hope, but still. John himself had told him about situations he witnessed during his time in the war, where people could be rescued from the ruins of a bombed building after several hours or even days. The DI refused to give up hope for his friend – not until they found his body.

“Sherlock, did you hear what I just said?”

The detective was trembling now but Lestrade assumed it was probably from the cold. Snow had started falling again. Sherlock didn’t say anything but gave a tiny nod. Lestrade hoped it was meant as an answer of understanding.

An ambulance finally arrived and Lestrade carefully guided Sherlock towards the paramedics who had bounced out of the vehicle and hurried towards their patient.

“Take him. He’s in shock, head wound, probably a concussion, maybe some fractured ribs.”

One of the men nodded and put a blanket around Sherlock’s shaking frame.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade once again tried to get the detective’s attention. “The fire is almost extinguished. We’ll start searching with a salvage team as soon as possible.“

Sherlock nodded weakly, although he wasn’t sure why.

“They’ll take you to hospital now. Stay there. I have to organize the rescue but I will come as soon as I can. OK?”

This time Sherlock didn’t acknowledged that he understood. All Sherlock could hear was the rumbling of falling concrete from the building behind him.

_John is dead._

* * *

 

Sally Donovan was barking orders over the radio while simultaneously shooing some of the officers around to secure the scene. Sally didn’t understand it. No matter what an abandoned area it was, as soon as there was a crime to watch gawkers were crawling out of their holes like rats. She had just spotted some reporters lurking near the cordon the officers had hastily put up.

“Simpson!” she called towards one of the officers and gestured towards the paparazzi who were unpacking their cameras and slowly heading towards the ambulance. The addressed sergeant nodded and hurried over to get rid of the unwanted visitors.

This was the last thing everyone needed now, some sensation-seeking reporters spotting Sherlock in this state. Sally glanced at the ambulance, where Sherlock was being guided towards a stretcher by the paramedic. His posture was slumped as if all energy had suddenly left his body. He looked defeated. Sherlock’s cries of John’s name as they had dragged him out of the building were still ringing in her ears…

…

_Sally rushed into the room, two other officers following behind. Lestrade had just finished untying the rope that had held Sherlock on a chair. The detective was pale; blood was streaming from a wound on his right temple. “_

_Did you find John? He’s still here!” Sherlock jumped from the chair as soon as Lestrade removed the bonds, but immediately began to sway. Lestrade had to steady him to prevent him from collapsing._

_“We have to get out, NOW!” Sally yelled. “Two minutes!”_

_Sherlock tried to break free from Lestrade’s grip. “NO! We need to find John!”_

_"THERE IS NO TIME!”_

_Lestrade and Sergeant Simpson grabbed Sherlock by his arms and dragged the struggling man out of the room and down the staircase towards the exit, Sally following close behind shouting orders into her radio._

_“EVERYBODY LEAVING THE BUILDING NOW! BOMB ON LEVEL 2! ABOUT ONE MINUTE LEFT! HURRY NOW!“_

_It was almost impossible to understand any replies coming from the device due to Sherlock’s shouting._

_“JOHN!”_

_“GET OFF ME! I NEED TO FIND JOHN!”_

_Sherlock was struggling and fighting to free himself. Under normal circumstances Lestrade and Sergeant Simpson wouldn’t be able to hold their grip on the man. But his injuries had weakened him noticeably._

_“JOHN!”_

_It felt like an eternity before they reached the ground floor and ran through the main entrance into the open._

_“EVERYONE OUT?” Lestrade yelled, still struggling to hold his grip on Sherlock._

_Sally looked around, scanning the officers, searching for everyone who had entered the building with them a couple of minutes before._

_“Yes,” she said in relief. “Everyone out.”_ Everyone but John Watson _, she thought._

_Just then the second storey of the building exploded. The sound of the explosion mingled together with the desperate cries of a man Sally once thought was incapable of human emotions._

_“JOHN!”_

_Terrified, Sally began to realize how close their escape from the inferno before her had been. The few intact windows of the building had burst, flames licking from their holes. The whole building seemed to shake as it lost its structural integrity and began to collapse. The roof and top floor slumped down and the pressure of the destroyed walls pulled the next storey down._

_Sherlock gave up any resistance. He was panting heavily and holding his ribs with a painted expression as he sank down on his knees on the cold ground, his face mirroring the horror they all felt while watching the debris falling._

_“John,” he whispered._

…

Sally had known Sherlock for quite some time and had never expected to see him in such a state of devastation. She was well aware that both men were close friends but now she witnessed how much Sherlock really cared for John Watson. It shouldn’t have been a surprise though; the detective threw himself from a building to save his friend’s life after all.

Guilt welled up inside her at the thought of that incident. She hadn’t liked Sherlock back then, true, she had despised him. She had been so engulfed in her resentment towards Sherlock’s oddness that she had let her prejudices cloud her judgment. In the month following Sherlock’s suicide, Sally went through a long process of guilt, defiance and realization. She had always been the type of person who hated to admit a mistake - one of her great weaknesses, she knew that. But through the process of self-reflection and even some talks with a therapist, she managed to formulate a sincere apology towards Lestrade and John. She had even visited Sherlock’s grave once.

When Sherlock returned, the old feelings of repulsion had welled up again combined with anger. How could he have done something cruel like that, faking his death, jumping from a building, making his friend watch? After learning the details of Moriarty’s sick game she felt shame and guilt once again. She had allowed herself to be manipulated by this mad man. With all her heart, Sally swore that she would never let something like that happen again.

The doors of the ambulance were slammed shut just as DI Lestrade approached her.

“How is he?” Sally asked, trying to let her voice show that she indeed was concerned for the man.

“Unresponsive. Shock. They’ll take him to hospital.”

A tense silence settled between them as they watched the ambulance disappear. Sally was about to say something when Lestrade spoke again, determination in his voice.

“We’ll need to talk to the fire and the salvage department. I suppose we can’t enter the ruins before dawn but I want to start searching for John as soon as possible. Set up a meeting with the whole team, everyone we need for the rescue, at Scotland Yard at 1am. And we’ll need the blueprints of the building. Get every map and every diagram that could be useful to plan the search.”

Sally nodded. It would be a long night without any sleep for all of them. But Sally doubted she would be able to get any rest anyway after the events of today. They would need daylight for the search; rummaging through the ruins of a bombed building during the night would be too risky. Sally looked at her watch. It was nearly 10pm now, still several hours before dawn. She looked over to the building, where the fire department was still working, although there weren’t any flames visible anymore. The fire from the explosion hadn’t been big. The flames didn’t have enough fuel in the empty building to burn long. That was good. They wouldn’t need to worry about too much frozen extinguishing water then. Unconsciously Sally wrapped her jacket a bit tighter around her. It was cold. The snowfall had intensified a bit and begun to cover the debris around them as if trying to erase the reminders that a good and brave man had probably lost his life today.

Sally looked up to her boss again, knowing that he wouldn’t want to hear what she was about to say. John Watson was his friend too.

“Sir, the damage is severe and we have minus temperatures during the night. We should entertain the possibility that…”

“As long as we don’t know otherwise we are searching for a survivor,” Lestrade interrupted firmly. “And we are doing that with the most possible urgency! Are we clear, Sergeant Donovan?”

“Yes, Sir,” Sally answered.

They both looked at each other for a moment and Lestrade’s features softened as he saw understanding in the face of his colleague.

“We’ll meet at the Yard. I’ll stop by the hospital before hand to look in on Sherlock.” Lestrade said softly, giving Sally’s shoulder a brief squeeze before turning and walking to his car.

Determined, Sally picked up the radio once more, beginning to organize the instructions from her boss. She would do everything within her power to help to find John Watson. She owed it to him even though she feared it would only be a body they found.

* * *

 

Sherlock heard the doors of the ambulance being shut, blocking out the torturing noises from outside. Shortly after that the vehicle started moving. The paramedics had secured him on the stretcher and began to tend to his injuries. They kept asking him questions but Sherlock didn’t reply. What was the point? He had a concussion and some bruising, nothing serious or life-threatening. He would live. Whereas…

_John is dead._

He should have been there. He shouldn’t have left the building without John. But they had dragged him outside - Lestrade, Donovan and some of the other officers - preventing him from searching for John. He would have found him, he would have deduced where they had locked him up. There had only been a few minutes left, but that wouldn’t have mattered. Sherlock knew he would have found him. But he couldn’t, he was injured and was dragged out. Now he was here, alive and John...

_John is dead._

It was his fault. He should have listened to John. John had wanted to wait for backup. He should have obeyed him. Just this once.

…

_The cab dropped them off at the main road nearby, so they walked the last few yards towards their destination. They stopped at a corner on the opposite side of the street, trying to look insuspicious while simultaneously observing the warehouse. From their current position no light could be seen in the building. The whole area was quiet and dark except for the thin layer of snow that had fallen during the day. Although the snow brightened the surroundings a bit, the area still felt like a ghost town to John. A light breeze fluttered through the street and he began to shiver._

_“Jesus, it’s bloody cold! I hope Greg hurries up.”_

_Sherlock was fidgeting beside him but it wasn’t from the cold. “Let’s go inside. They might be ready to leave any second.”_

_“No,” John said firmly. “I don’t have my gun with me. And Lestrade will be here soon.“_

_John turned and looked down the street, hoping to see their reinforcements. But the road was empty and silent. When he turned back Sherlock had already crossed the street and was heading towards a side entrance._

_“Sherlock!” John hissed and hurried to catch up with his friend, muttering silent curses for the other man’s stubbornness._

_A few minutes later, Sherlock and John were dragged up the staircase of the warehouse by several members of the gang they were trying to catch. Well, the gang had caught them and John’s curses weren’t silent anymore._

_“Bloody idiot,” John snapped towards Sherlock. “Of course, Sherlock Holmes can’t be bothered to wait. No, you always need to have it your way. I told you we should wait for the pol-.”_

_“Shhhhh!” Sherlock hissed. Although he knew that John was mainly frustrated and angry because he had forgotten his gun, his harsh tone still hurt a bit._

_John kept quiet. Admitting that police were on the way was probably not the cleverest thing to say in front of their abductors. He threw glances towards Sherlock every now and then, but they were filled more with worry than anger._

_They reached the second floor and were led through a hallway until they entered a small room with no windows but a second door on the opposite side. The shelves on the side wall were empty, but Sherlock observed a lack of dust and dirt, indicating that they must have been tightly packed not long ago. As they entered, some guys were moving a hand truck with several boxes on it through the back door. So he had been right (of course), Sherlock thought, the gang was leaving._

_“Boss? Found these. Were lurking around,” The man with an iron grip on Sherlock’s biceps said._

_A guy almost as tall as Sherlock but twice his muscle mass stepped out of the group of men - Sherlock had counted seven in addition to the two with the hand truck - and took a gun from a holster on his side. He paced between Sherlock and John, looking them both over for several moments without saying anything. Finally he pointed towards Sherlock._

_“Tie him up. Lock the other one downstairs.“_

_The two thugs who held John shoved him roughly towards the door._

_“No need to get pushy,” John snarled, but the guys only hardened their grip on John’s upper arm and one thrust his elbow hard into John’s lower back so he hissed in pain._

_With a jolt, Sherlock tried to break away from his guards. He almost succeeded but the boss immediately noticed his intention, raised his hand with the gun and punched Sherlock hard in the face. The butt of the weapon hit him at the temple. Sherlock stumbled back, his vision blurred and he sank to his knees. He felt blood dripping down his face from to the laceration the blow had caused._

_“Sherlock!” John yelled but his guards dragged him out of the room and into the hallway they had come from._

_Sherlock tried to get back on his feet, ignoring the dizziness as best as he could. He would not give in! Several pairs of hands grabbed him despite his struggling, shoved him onto a chair and tied him up._

_“Now,” the boss said, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and yanking his head. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”_

_Sherlock almost laughed at that question. Somebody who didn’t know who they were! How… refreshing. He was about to snap an answer when one of the guys who had caught them spoke._

_“This is the detective fella from the news. Dunno who the other one is but I think he mentioned the police are on the way.”_

Damn it John! _Sherlock thought. “Any second,” he said instead with a huge grin. Distraction, he needed to buy time now._ Come on Lestrade, hurry!

_It was obvious this wasn’t the kind of information the boss wanted to hear. With a shout of rage and frustration he hit Sherlock in the face again. The punch was so hard, he fell to the floor with the chair like a heavy sack of flour. Sherlock was gasping for breath as pain exploded in his head. Black dots were dancing in front of his eyes as he fought against the rising nausea._

_“Fetch everything quickly. We are moving now!” the boss said._

_“What about the other one?” one of his lads asked._

_“He’s fine where he is,” the boss looked down on Sherlock with an evil grin on his face. “We are leaving a present.” he said._

_Sherlock drew breath to speak when the boss kicked him hard in the ribs and the air was once again knocked out of his lungs. This time Sherlock wasn’t able to hold back and let out a yell of pain. He desperately fought to stay awake but the dizziness was so overwhelming he soon lost focus. He heard the clapping of boots on concrete as the men hurried out of the room. Sherlock thought he might have heard an order being yelled, something like “Prepare the second floor.” but finally everything went black._

_“Sherlock!”_

_Somebody was calling his name. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t John. John! The thought of his friend brought Sherlock quickly back into consciousness. He opened his eyes, blinked several times and took some deep breaths, at least as deep as possible. His ribs hurts as well as his head and he was still feeling dizzy and nauseous._

_“Sherlock!”_

_Sherlock finally managed to focus his vision. Someone had put him and the chair up again and Lestrade was kneeling in front of him, a worried expression on his face._

_“You with me?” Lestrade asked, after seeing that Sherlock had woken up. He nodded._

_“Where’s John?”_

_“Down…” Sherlock said weakly and, despite the pain in his side, took another deep breath. “Downstairs. They locked him up there somewhere.“_

_“Alright, we’ll find him,“ Lestrade said and began to untie the rope on Sherlock’s hands. The detective began to shuffle on his chair._

_“The gang?“_

_“Escaped. They were already gone when we arrived. Missed them by a couple of minutes I suppose.”_

_Sherlock’s eyes widened as he remembered the words. “Go, find John now!” he said, struggling to get his hands of the loosened rope. “They said they’d leave something! There is a…”_

_Sherlock was interrupted by the yell of Sergeant Donovan over the radio on Lestrade’s belt. “BOMB ON LEVEL 2!”_

_Lestrade immediately stopped untying the ropes and took the device._

_“How long?”_

_“3 minutes left!”_

_“Donovan get down here,” Lestrade answered then looked at Sherlock. The pleading expression of the detective who had instantly realized what the other man was about to do, was hard to bear. But Lestrade shook his head sadly, took a deep breath and spoke into the radio once again._

_“WE HAVE A BOMB ON THE SECOND FLOOR. WE’RE EVACUATING. STOP SEARCHING. EVERYONE OUT! NOW!“_

…

The ambulance drove slowly through the snow covered streets. Sherlock turned his head away from the annoying man who was still trying to get his patient to speak. He looked through the narrow window on the side of the car. Big snowflakes were dancing outside in the chilly night. If the snowfall continued like that, London would be covered by a thick layer tomorrow - just like the debris of someone’s life.


	2. Night

The cab ride from the hospital back home passed in a blur. Sherlock hardly remembered stepping into the car and telling the driver his address. He felt detached from everything around him, as if he was in slow motion while the rest of the world moved at normal speed – the world without John.

_John is dead._

They had wanted to keep him in hospital for the night but Sherlock refused. The doctor was very adamant. Sherlock just ignored him and, as they couldn’t force him to stay against his will they finally let him go telling him he should make sure that someone could observe him during the night. Sherlock paid no attention to the instruction. It was no use anyway; there wasn’t anybody to observe him. Mrs. Hudson was with Mrs. Turner and John…

_John is dead._

Sherlock got out of the cab and opened the front door of Baker Street. As he stepped into the hallway, memories of him and John entering the house laughing, arguing or being exhausted after their cases were brought back. The numbness inside him loosened, leaving space for an emotional pain that was much worse than his hurting ribs or the pounding headache. Slowly Sherlock climbed up the stairs almost dreading the moment he had to step into the flat knowing its other occupant wasn’t there anymore.

_John is dead._

Sherlock took a deep breath, wincing a little due to the pain of his bruised ribs, and went inside. Everything was just like they had left it some hours ago. The kitchen table was still a mess from the experiment with battery acid he had done this morning. The book John had been reading lay on one armrest of his chair. Sherlock gently stroked the fabric of the furniture that had quite naturally become John’s as soon as the other man had moved in. Suddenly there was an image flashed in his mind; John sitting in his chair looking at Sherlock’s empty one, knowing that his friend would never sit there again. Sherlock gasped. Was this how John had felt back then, after he had jumped? Did grief and sorrow hit him with the same force as it did Sherlock now, making his legs buckle? Sherlock sank down on his knees in front of John’s chair. He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth suppressing a sob.

_John is dead._

He’d messed up. They had barely spoken to each other recently and now his friend was gone and it was too late. Sherlock had hoped for a chance to talk after the case was solved. He had wanted to explain why he had been so cruel to John in the last couple of weeks. He had avoided his friend. He had spent long evenings at the lab at St. Barts and had stopped asking John to accompany him on cases. First Sherlock had used fragile excuses (“You weren’t there when Lestrade called.” “I was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson!”), but eventually he had just left without saying anything. Sometimes he had delegated minor tasks to John, which weren’t exactly necessary for solving the case. Sherlock had known that his behavior was frustrating John. He himself had felt agitated and miserable. But still, he hadn’t known what else to do to solve his ‘problem’, as he called it. This case had proven to be the final straw for both of them and Sherlock had noticed how much he had really hurt John.

…

 _The case had come up yesterday - a series of burglaries, seven incidents so far, small but exclusive shops, mainly for premium electronic equipment – normally, nothing Sherlock had a particular interest in. But at the moment he took any distraction he could get. Besides, the method indicated a professional, highly organized gang and they used bombs for their break-ins. How fascinating! Sherlock threw himself into the case files, analyzing the gang’s targets, tracing their patterns and experimenting through the night with different ingredients to match the construction of the bombs. John wasn’t very pleased when he saw the mess in the kitchen the next morning, but he was nevertheless eager to help with the case. Sherlock was torn between desperately wanting his friend’s company, as he had been avoiding it for so long now, and keeping the distance he thought was necessary._ Just a few more days _, he thought,_ a few more days and everything will be back to normal _._

 _Sherlock had excused himself to do some more experiments at St. Barts while sending John on some background research on the last two targets. It was useless of course. Sherlock already had all the information he needed. They met at the Yard at Lestrade’s office in the afternoon. Sherlock was in the middle of the explanation of his results as John entered. Sherlock felt that warm rush of affection at the sight of his friend, as it always happened these days, and sighed inwardly._ When will it go away? _Sherlock continued presenting his results, ignoring John and his attempt to join the conversation._

 _On their ride back home, John was silent. That wasn’t unusual per se but Sherlock sensed the other man’s tension. He had made it a bit too obvious that he hadn’t wanted John’s help with the case. Like so often in the last couple of weeks, he had shut him out. Sherlock knew that John was unhappy and that he had brought a crack into their friendship._ Just a few more days _._

_The moment the door of their flat closed. John turned towards Sherlock, anger written all over his face._

_“WHAT THE HELL, Sherlock!”_

_“John, …” Sherlock began._

_“WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM? YOUR PERSONAL ERRAND BOY?”_

_Sherlock considered for a moment how he should answer this question. As a matter of fact, John WAS sometimes like an errand boy. But stating this fact wouldn’t be helpful now._

_“John ,…”_

_“WHY ON EARTH DID YOU SEND ME ON THIS BLOODY RESEARCH WHEN YOU ALREADY HAD THE BLOODY INFORMATION?”_

_“John, I needed to double check,” Sherlock said although he knew how lame this excuse sounded. “It was necessary to ensure that my deductions were correct.”_

_“YOUR DEDUCTIONS ARE ALWAYS CORRECT!”_

_“You are overreacting.” Sherlock said in (what he hoped was) a calming tone but avoiding any eye contact. John’s deep blue eyes were just too distracting. He needed to stay focused._

_“Oh yes!” John hissed. “That’s it! I am overreacting. Thank you for the clue. I am very relieved now.”_

_“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock said. He finally looked at John and gulped as he saw the look on his friend’s face. Sherlock could have handled John’s anger or even disappointment to a certain extent. But what he saw now was far beyond that. John looked sad and hurt. That was not what Sherlock had intended._

_“You made me look like an idiot, Sherlock. And it was not the first time, you know that bloody well!” John looked at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation._

_“John…,” Sherlock tried but then said nothing. He just didn’t know what to say. How could he possibly explain?_

_John let out a huff. “Very well.” He turned around and headed for the door. “I’m going for a walk. I need some air.”_

_At the doorway he stopped and turned around locking his gaze with Sherlock’s. “If anything comes up, don’t call me. I am not available. But you don’t need me anyway, don’t you?”_

…

Sherlock was still crouching in front of John’s chair, trembling, trying to get himself together again. The look on John’s face - a mixture of deep disappointment, sadness and hurt - was burned into his vision. Suddenly he felt nausea rising. He stumbled towards the bathroom, making it just in time before being sick. _It’s the concussion_ , he thought while bending over the toilet, _just the concussion_.

* * *

 

Lestrade stifled a yawn after gulping down the rest of his coffee. He stood in front of his office’s window looking into the winter night. It had stopped snowing about an hour ago. Thank God, he thought. It would make the rescue a lot easier. He just hoped the weather would remain stable within the next hours. Lestrade tried to suppress another yawn and looked at his watch, quarter to three. They had had to reschedule their meeting because delivery of the building’s blueprints had been delayed but a few minutes ago a clerk had finally brought the plans. Lestrade took the first one, the groundplan of the basement, to put it on his magnetic whiteboard. He stopped for a moment and looked at the scribbling on it. It had only been a few hours since Sherlock had explained his deductions about the recent case, drawing these illegible diagrams. _What a day_ , he thought. Lestrade had been surprised that John was with him this time. Sherlock was working more and more often without his friend lately. There had been a lot of tension in the room due to Sherlock’s strange behavior towards John.

…

_They had met in Lestrade’s office at 2:30pm. Sherlock had bounced in with his usual arrogant style, but Lestrade knew the detective well enough by now to see the strain the other man had been trying to hide for some time now. Sherlock started right away with explaining the deductions he was able to make just from looking through the police reports. He outlined the different robberies, their locations and connections on Lestrade’s whiteboard as well as the gang’s structure, their behavior pattern and the most likely type of hiding place. As always the man talked at nearly light speed and Lestrade had to rein him in several times in order to fully understand and take his notes (Sherlock’s messy writing was hardly legible). Sherlock was almost done with his explanation when John tapped at the door and entered the office._

_“Nice, you waited for me,” John mumbled. Lestrade gave him an apologetic look and frowned at Sherlock who hadn’t mentioned that John would be attending. Sherlock just ignored him and also didn’t acknowledge John’s arrival._

_John sat down on one of the office chairs, fetching his notebook from his pocket. He looked up at the whiteboard and his expression froze. Lestrade saw anger rising in the other man’s face and wondered what had happened._

_“And that’s the key factors of their method and choice of targets.” Sherlock seemed to be at the end of his monologue as he took a red pen and drew a circle around some of the figures._

_“I suppose your research from the last two crime scenes supports my explanation?” he asked, turning towards John for the first time since his flat mate entered the room._

_John gaped at him for a moment. “Yeah, the owner of the last shop, Mr. Evans, said he noticed…”_

_“Yes, thank you John, we already had that.”_

_Everything clicked into place for Lestrade. John had apparently been away to gather some information about the victims of the burglaries or something like that and now he was here to present his results, only to find out they weren’t needed. Lestrade groaned. This wasn’t the first time in the last weeks that Sherlock had sent John to do some research that wasn’t exactly necessary. But it was the first time he made it so obviously clear that he had just wanted John out of the way. Not only obvious to John himself but also Lestrade and Donovan. The latter shot him pitying looks, which made John’s cheeks burn with further embarrassment. He clenched the notebook in his hands, nearly ripping it apart. Sherlock either didn’t notice the discomfort of his friend or chose to ignore it._

_“Case as good as solved,” he said, looking at Lestrade with a grin on his face._

_“We still don’t know where the gang is.” Sergeant Donovan said, annoyed about Sherlock’s smugness. “Or their prey.”_

_“We will shortly”, Sherlock replied. “I put my homeless network on it and should have news tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I get the message.”_

_John had gone very quiet. His jaw muscles were tense, his mouth pressed into a thin line._

_“Do you have any other questions?” Sherlock asked, eyes fixed on Lestrade once again._

_“No.” Lestrade replied. “I think…”_

_“Very well.” Sherlock interrupted. He turned around and left the office, not bothering whether John followed or not. John let out an annoyed huff, mumbled a brief farewell and hurried after his flat mate. Lestrade sighed. As long as he had known John he had always seen him and Sherlock as equal. Now he couldn’t help but notice how much his behavior resembled a dog following his master._

…

Lestrade didn’t understand why Sherlock was acting this way. He had tried to talk to him but Sherlock dodged every attempt at conversation. The detective might appear indifferent from the outside but he was also snappy, stressed and clearly just as unhappy as John. Something must have happened between the two men. Their friendship was falling apart but neither seemed to have the power to do anything. The thought that John and Sherlock now might never get the chance to resolve their problems almost terrified Lestrade.

The tapping on his door snapped him out of his thoughts. Donovan had arrived, together with the head of the salvation team as well as some of his other officers who would help with the search. Lestrade gestured to them to enter.

 _We must find John alive_ , Lestrade thought. He remembered Sherlock’s devastated expression after they had dragged him out of the building. _If John is dead, a part of Sherlock is dying too_.

* * *

 

After his stomach finally settled, Sherlock got on his shaky feet. He went to the sink and splashed some water into his face, avoiding his image in the mirror. He didn’t want to see himself as broken as he felt at the moment. With his eyes closed, he grabbed the first towel he found beneath the sink. It was John’s. Sherlock pressed the soft fabric into his face, inhaling the scent. It cost him all his willpower not to break down again.

Sherlock felt exhausted. The pain from his bruised ribs and headache had worsened due to the vomiting. Sleep, that’s all he wanted now; dreamless sleep. The towel still in his hands, he left the bathroom heading towards his bedroom. He tried not to look around while crossing the living room. Everything in here reminded him of John and this dreadful day: the batteries on the kitchen table for his experiment, John’s notebook he had thrown onto the desk during their fight, the puddle of tea Sherlock had spilled on the table during his talk with Mrs. Hudson earlier. It had already dried.

…

_He heard John’s angry footsteps on the stairs and then the front door being slammed shut with more force than necessary. Sherlock flopped himself onto the couch with a frustrated groan and wondered how to clear up that mess. John’s tone had sounded sour and the words felt like a punch in the stomach. He felt guilty and angry. He was angry that John made him feel all these troublesome emotions. And he was angry with himself. He failed, his goddamn plan failed! Sherlock had tried for weeks and nothing had changed! Quite the contrary, it actually got worse! And now John was angry and hurt and Sherlock had no idea what explanation he could give his friend. Certainly not the truth! This was out of question._

_There was a soft knock on the doorframe. “Woo-hoo!”_

_Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mrs. Hudson’s babbling was the last thing he needed now._

_“You had quite a fight,” Mrs. Hudson said as she entered the room._

_“I noticed. I was present,” Sherlock replied without actually looking towards his landlady. His annoyance was clearly audible._

_Mrs. Hudson didn’t respond. She went to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two fresh cups of tea. She placed one on the coffee table beside Sherlock. His eyes flickered briefly to the cup but he said nothing and didn’t move. Mrs. Hudson had taken a seat in John’s armchair. She drank the first sips of tea in silence with a thoughtful expression on her face._

_“You should tell him,” Mrs. Hudson said finally._

_Sherlock stiffened and slowly rose from his prone position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a snippy tone._

_Mrs. Hudson took her cup and moved over to Sherlock, sitting beside him on the couch. “I may be an old woman,” she said with a sad smile. “But I have plenty of experience in this sort of things.”_

_Sherlock just raised an eyebrow but said nothing, sipping at his lukewarm tea._

_“And I have eyes and my own observation skills you know,“ she continued with a warm smile. “Talk to John. Otherwise you will lose him.”_

_Sherlock smacked the cup down, spilling tea all over the table, and jumped to his feet. “I can’t tell him!” he said and began pacing through the room. A moment later he sank back on the couch as if all energy had suddenly drained out of him. He threw a glance over to John’s armchair._

_“He’ll leave.” Sherlock said quietly, his tone was almost desperate._

_Mrs. Hudson placed her hand on Sherlock’s and waited until he looked at her. “Maybe,” she said. “That’s the risk you have to take. But if you keep rejecting him, he will definitely leave.”_

_Sherlock huffed and looked away. His face clearly showed the tension he was feeling._

_Mrs. Hudson got up. “I am with Mrs. Turner tonight. The poor thing has sprained her ankle.”_

_She took both cups into the kitchen. Before leaving the flat she turned towards Sherlock once more. “Think about it, dear.”_

_After a few minutes without moving an inch, Sherlock felt like he might explode any second. He hurried to his violin and began playing, the only thing he could think of that might calm him. Absentmindedly he began playing a random melody trying to solve the chaos in his mind._

…

Sherlock didn’t bother to take off his coat when he reached the bedroom. He felt cold anyway although he was sure this kind of coldness wouldn’t go away with a heavy coat or a warm blanket. He threw off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, curling up into a ball. John’s towel pressed into his face, Sherlock finally drifted off into a light slumber.


	3. Dawn

Lestrade wasn’t exactly happy to be forced to wait outside. But he was the commanding officer and therefore had to take the lead over his crew together with the chief of the salvage team from the fire department. The two men were standing between a waiting ambulance and a small lorry which was loaded with all kinds of rescue tools. They had started the search at the beginning of dawn, when there was just enough daylight that it wouldn’t be too risky for the people who went inside. The weather had remained stable; it had even warmed up a bit. On closer inspection, the damage to the building wasn’t as severe as originally expected. The ground level, in particular, was mostly intact and relatively easy accessible. The blueprints had shown several cooling chambers on that floor and hopefully John was locked in one of those. Due to the structure of these rooms - no windows, thick walls and massive steel doors - it was unlikely that they had collapsed entirely. Besides, the insulating purpose of a cooling chamber does work the other way round as well, so it wouldn’t have been too cold in there during the night - another point that would increase John’s chances of survival, given that he was indeed in one of them. The team had been inside for nearly an hour now. They had checked two rooms so far, both empty.

Lestrade stepped nervously from one foot to the other, gripping the radio hard. With the other hand he took his mobile from his pocket, checking for calls or messages. Nothing. He had tried to call Sherlock a few times in order to keep him informed about the search, but the detective hadn’t answered. Lestrade was worried about his condition. He didn’t like the thought of Sherlock being in Baker Street on his own. He would have preferred him staying in hospital overnight but he knew the man couldn’t be forced. Lestrade just hoped that the watchful eye of Sherlock’s brother would prevent him from doing something stupid.

“Sir!” the voice of Sergeant Donovan, who had volunteered immediately to accompany the rescue party, came through the radio. She sounded excited. And happy.

“I’m listening,” Lestrade replied. Soon a huge grin spread over his face. In the background over the radio he heard the raspy, tired but very alive voice of John Watson _“Is Sherlock ok?”_.

“We’ve got him,” Donovan said.

* * *

 

When John climbed up the stairs to their flat he realized how exhausted he was. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and the physical strains of his captivity were starting to show. He felt dizzy and tired. Violent shivers ran down his spine. John cursed; he shouldn’t have left the blanket the paramedics gave him in Greg’s car. The DI had wanted to come in with him, just to make sure that he and Sherlock were alright, but John had declined. The paramedics were almost furious as John insisted on being taken home instead of to the hospital, which certainly would have been reasonable with a mild case of hypothermia and slight dehydration. But John decided he would be fine without further observation. He was a doctor after all. John was extremely worried. From what Greg had told him, Sherlock had had a kind of a breakdown and he desperately wanted to see him. Still, the 17 stairs proven to be challenging.

John thought of the last time he had climbed up these stairs – it felt like ages though it was only a few hours ago; but those hours had changed everything. The last time he had climbed these stairs, he had come back from the long walk he took after his fight with Sherlock. He had made a decision back then.

 …

_Dusk was already falling when Sherlock heard John’s soft footsteps on the stairs. He put the violin away as the other man entered the room. John had calmed down; he didn’t look as defeated anymore, still sad but also resolved. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of John’s demeanour. Both men looked at each other for a moment._

_“Sherlock, we need…”_

_"I’m sorry!” Sherlock interrupted hastily. “Please, listen for a moment.” He had thought about what to say to John and he was desperate to show his friend that he meant it._

_"I'm sorry about today. I shouldn’t have sent you away to investigate when I already had an idea about what happened. And I’m sorry if my behaviour made you uncomfortable. I understand now, that you felt humiliated by my actions. I am sorry for that too. I promise that this will not happen again.”_

_Sherlock was actually a bit proud of his little speech. He had chosen his words with care, hoping that he had covered most of the reasons why John was angry with him._

_John looked irritated at first but finally relaxed a little. He was glad that Sherlock had apologized; that was very rare for him. Maybe that’s why his words sounded a bit prepared. After all, he knew his friend well enough to see the honesty in Sherlock’s eyes._

_“Right. Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for apologizing.”  
_

_John sat down, an earnest expression still on his face. “We need to talk,” he said._

_“About what? I apologized. I mean it, John. Really.”_

_“It’s ok Sherlock, I believe you. And I am fine with it,” John smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked sad and Sherlock didn’t like the way John looked at him._

_“I had some time to think,” John continued “and I came to a conclusion.”_

_Sherlock frowned, not quite sure what John was getting at. “A conclusion about what?”_

_John took a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eyes. “I am going to leave Baker Street.”_

Wait, what?? _For a moment Sherlock was speechless. “NO!” he yelled, jumping out of his seat._

_John was a bit surprised by this sudden reaction. “Sherlock…”_

_“That’s ridiculous John! I’ve just said sorry and you said it’s ok! Why do you want to leave?” he looked at John in disbelief. “I am sorry John, I truly am. I know, I’ve not been quite myself lately, but I will come to it. I promise. Please stay, don’t leave.”_

_What surprised John most was not only the absolute honesty but also a kind of desperation within his friend’s words and posture. Sherlock looked anxious and insecure – something John has hardly ever seen in the man before._

_“Sherlock, it’s not about this particular fight,” he said gently as if trying not to scare him away. “But has it ever occurred to you, that this might not work anymore?”_

_“This? You mean…” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper, his distress clearly audible._

_John considered his words carefully as he began to speak. “What I mean is us two, living and working together. You’ve been avoiding me. You’ve been avoiding me for some time now. I suppose you didn’t even notice it, so I probably shouldn’t have gotten so angry with you.”_

_“John…” Sherlock began but John held up his hand to stop him._

_“Please let me finish,” he said. “Sherlock, you were away for almost two years. You had to work alone the whole time, in your manner, with your methods and at your pace. You’re just not used to having somebody around anymore. And, well, it’s quite obvious that you don’t need me. I’m sad about it, but I don’t want to blame you. Your exile changed you.”_

_“No, John! No, no, no!” Sherlock paced the room, ruffling desperately through his hair and mumbling again and again. “Wrong. This is wrong. No, you got it wrong.”_

_John looked puzzled. This was not the reaction he had expected. Sherlock had gone pale, his breathing was fast. He seemed to be on the edge of a panic attack._

_“Sherlock,” he said in a soothing tone. “I’m not going to abandon you or anything. But I don’t want to stick around and follow you like a lost puppy. I don’t want to force my presence on you when I just slow you down and annoy you. That hurts me. Don’t you understand?”_

_Sherlock said nothing, just continued pacing. John wasn’t even sure whether he had heard him properly._

_“I’m not going to abandon you,” John repeated. “You’re still my friend. But I think, maybe we need some space from another.”_

_“No John! NO!” Sherlock finally yelled in desperation. “You got it wrong! You got it completely wrong!”_

_John stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist firmly to stop his mad running. “Sherlock, calm down, please,” he said. “Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.”_

_“Sentiment,” Sherlock said._

_“Sentiment?”John asked. Sherlock just nodded. “Care to elaborate?”_

_Sherlock took a deep breath and looked John into the eyes. “You’re right. I have been avoiding you… a bit… in the last couple of days… maybe weeks. But you’re absolutely wrong; it has nothing to do with me not wanting you around anymore. I do want you to be around.”_

_“OK, you are avoiding me but want me around at the same time?” John asked frowning._

_“Yes.”_

_“Sherlock, that doesn’t make any sense.”_

_“My motives… my motives for wandering off alone and spending my time away is a result of… of an experiment.”_

_“An experiment!?”_

_“Yes, I… I needed to test something. If the lack of your presence with me or my work has an influence on the… on the disturbing feelings I have recently experienced when around you. I estimated a reasonable distance could help to improve my state.” After a moment in which nobody said a word Sherlock added “But I’m afraid it didn’t work out.”_

_John stared at Sherlock dumbfounded._ Did he just…? Was this a…?

_“I was just so, confused, I… I thought… it would go away … I thought with some distance …” Sherlock stumbled over the words he wanted to say. He looked down on John’s hand grasping his arm. With his other hand Sherlock carefully loosened John grip but didn’t let go of his hand. On the contrary, Sherlock took John’s hand in his and stroked little circles with his thumb._

_“I… I don’t know…” he started again, not looking up, just staring at their hands. “I just don’t know what to do or how to say it.”_

_John stared at Sherlock. He felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his own and the pleasant feeling of Sherlock stroking it. John’s stomach made a strange flip._

_“Sherlock, look at me,” he said with a raspy voice._

_The other man hesitated a moment but finally looked up. Then John saw the deep emotions within his friend’s eyes. Confusion, desperation, fear and … love. Suddenly everything made sense, Sherlock’s strange behavior, his ongoing absence and pretended indifference. He had obviously tried to deal with his emotions in a very Sherlockian way – avoiding their source instead of facing the situation._

_The brief moment both men stood there just looking into each other’s eyes and holding hands somehow felt like an eternity. The silence was finally interrupted by the beep of Sherlock’s phone indicating an incoming text message._

_“It’s from Billy,” Sherlock said, after he had pulled the device from his pocket. “They found the gang’s bolt hole. They’re in one of the buildings at the abandoned wholesale market_ _in Brompton.”_

_“Good,” John said, relieved about the distraction. “I’ll text the address to Lestrade and then we can go.”_

_Sherlock hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “But…”_

_John saw the battle Sherlock fought with himself. He wanted to solve the case and this was the final information he needed. On the other hand, he seemed afraid that this might be the only chance he got._

_Sherlock’s hand was still in his and it surprised him a little how natural it felt. John smiled and gave Sherlock’s hand a little squeeze. “Come on, let’s catch some bad guys. We’ll talk later, I promise.”_

…

Sherlock stirred in his sleep. It wasn’t a really deep sleep, more a light slumber; the kind of state between sleeping and waking where you are aware that you are dreaming but not awake enough to control anything. Sherlock went through his conversation with John again and again, trying to change the events, to make them stay in the flat. But they always leave. _We’ll talk later_ , John had promised. _We’ll talk later._ Sherlock sobbed. He could still feel John’s cold hand stroking his cheek. _Wait!_ _That hadn’t happened!_ John hadn’t stroked his cheek and his hand hadn’t been cold at all!

“Sherlock,” somebody whispered.

Sherlock groaned and began fidgeting. This was developing into a nightmare. He felt hot, his hair was plastered against his sweaty forehead, his shirt clung to his body.

“Sherlock, wake up!” John said.

_John… JOHN!_

Sherlock jolted upwards, wincing at the pain that shot through his rib cage and gasping for air.

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Beside him, sitting on the edge of his mattress, was John, with a very worried expression on his face. _John!_

_John is alive!_

But wait, he’d seen the building explode. John had been inside. _John… John is dead._ He must be hallucinating. Sherlock’s breathing sped up, he felt light-headed and nauseous once again. Black dots began dancing in front of eyes and his ears were ringing.

“Shhhhhh, Sherlock,” John said. He stretched out his arm and carefully stroked Sherlock’s cheek, then cupped his face completely in his hands. “Breathe Sherlock! Breathe. Easy, in… and out… in… and out.”

They sat there for a while; John in- and exhaling slowly and audibly forcing Sherlock to mimic his breathing pattern. Sherlock finally took one of John’s hands into his, searching for the pulse. There it was, strong and steady - the rhythmic thumping beneath his fingertips, a simple reassurance as Sherlock slowly began to drift back into reality.

_John is alive._

“John,” he whispered.

Sherlock looked at John who now carefully stroked over the stitched wound on Sherlock’s temple and frowning, still worried apparently. John was pale; his hands were cold, his skin raw as well as his lips which also had a slight blue color. And he was shivering. Though John tried to suppress it, Sherlock could still see the tremors running through his friend’s body. _He’d been in the building the whole night_ , Sherlock suddenly realized.

“Shouldn’t you be in hospital?” Sherlock asked, now very much worried himself.

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I wanted… I needed to check on you.”

“I‘m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

“I am now.”

“Me too.”

John smiled at Sherlock, who hadn’t let go of his hand, his fingers still on John’s pulse point. The worries about Sherlock’s condition had proven to be a distraction from his own exhausted body. But now as the shivering began once again, John thought about those nice warm jumpers he had in his room. A hot cup of tea would probably do them both good as well. But his attempt to rise was interrupted instantly.

“DON’T!” Sherlock said, almost panicking again, grabbing John’s wrist harder to stop him from moving away. “Don’t go. Stay! Please!”

Sherlock’s face still showed the terror he’d gone through the night before. Just like the fear John had felt while being locked in a crumbling building, not knowing what had happened, if he would make it out and if Sherlock was still alive _(“Please, god, please! He can’t be dead! I can’t lose him again.”)_. John swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and nodded, suppressing a shudder that wasn’t from the cold. Sherlock took off the coat he was still wearing and put it around John, guiding him to lie down. John instantly started to relax under the warm shelter of Sherlock’s coat and his eyelids began to droop. Sherlock felt his own exhaustion catching up with him. He huddled close to his friend and covered them both with his blanket.

“Rest,” Sherlock said softly.

“You too,” John whispered.

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up several hours later from a dreamless sleep. The room around him was dim. _Dawn_ , he thought at first but soon noticed that the light wasn’t quite right nor did the noises outside fit the estimated time of day. Sherlock glanced towards the clock on the wall he was currently facing; 5:20pm, late afternoon then, daylight was almost gone but Sherlock still felt sleepy. As he tried to turn over a dull ache in his chest reminded him of his injuries. Suddenly the events of the past two days came rushing back to him. He gasped as adrenaline was pumped through his body making his head pound.

_John! John is… alive._

A warm body was pressed against his back and an arm slung around his waist. In addition he felt a steady breathing that was tickling his neck. Carefully Sherlock turned over, gritting his teeth as he put pressure on his bruised ribs. But the pain was manageable and almost forgotten as soon as he looked into John’s face.

_John is alive._

The other man was still sleeping. His features were relaxed; the stress of the recent events didn’t show. He had regained a normal color and, as Sherlock carefully took John’s hands, he was relieved to find them warm. John was still wrapped in Sherlock’s coat and Sherlock smiled at the sight. He looked absolutely adorable. He wouldn’t have minded just looking at his friend for hours, guarding his restful sleep, but John finally opened his eyes as well. Both their eyes were roaming over each other, observing their condition, reassuring themselves that the other was ok. Soon Sherlock began to feel restless. He thought about the events of the previous evening, especially their conversation in the living room. Hundreds of thoughts and questions were running through his mind. He was about to say something when John halted him.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered putting a finger on Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t talk. Let me try something.”

John caressed Sherlock’s lips with his thumb, moving his finger gently over his cheekbone. Then he leaned forward and carefully pressed his lips onto Sherlock’s. The kiss was shy at first, just their lips brushing together. Slowly John began to kiss other parts of Sherlock’s face: the tip of his nose, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth and then his lips again. Sherlock was so stunned from the sensation he felt of John’s skin on his own that he was barely able to move. Slowly and tenderly John brushed his tongue over Sherlock’s lips encouraging him to open his mouth slightly, granting access. Their tongues danced around each other’s - gently first but the kiss became deeper and deeper as Sherlock finally began to respond. He cupped John’s face and fell into the pace of their kissing, nibbling on the other man’s lips, exploring his mouth, tangling his tongue with his. The feeling of passion and happiness made a moan escape Sherlock’s lips. John smiled. While their hands were ruffling through each other’s hair, their kissing continued until they were both almost breathless.

Sherlock snuggled deeper under the blanket shuffling closer to John who was instantly putting his arms around him. Their foreheads touched and they looked at each other for a long time, telling each other with looks what they weren’t able to say with words.

_I thought I’d lost you._

_I’m still here._

_Don’t leave me._

_I won’t. Never._

Finally their eyes began to drift shut. Feeling safe and loved they slept soundly in each other’s arms until the dawning of a new day.

 

_\- The End -_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my story.  
> Please take a look at the other stories of this collection. They are all wonderful works :-)


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